


Equivocal

by cal1brations



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 03:24:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19190950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/cal1brations
Summary: He brings the glass to his lips again, turning to take a real look at the thing Aziraphale had brought in with him and set on the counter. He eyes it curiously, then flicks his gaze to Aziraphale, pointing at the thing in question."What's with the plant?"





	Equivocal

Crowley doesn't really have Aziraphale over at his place often. Or anyone, really.

He considers his flat more of a— for the lack of term— a _hole_ more than anything else. A random place in a random location that Crowley stuffs himself into when he wants to get away from everyone and everything and pretend he is the only person to exist, at least for a little while. It's dark and quiet and perfect for stumbling into during the middle of the night and dragging himself into bed to sleep for inhuman lengths of time, should he so desire.

But, sometimes Aziraphale does pop over. Usually it's when Crowley is being lazy, or, more realistically, hideously hungover and unwilling to leave his dimly-lit apartment, nor his ridiculously-extravagant king-sized bed.

Today it's the latter, and Aziraphale is coming over because they have plans for the evening, but also because he has a small gift for Crowley. A thanks-for-helping-me-save-the-world-from-certain-doom gift, because that's what friends do for each other, he thinks. Avoiding the end of the world is not common enough to warrant one of those tacky greeting cards, so Aziraphale hopes his gift will be received well enough without some silly card to tell Crowley how thankful he is.

Crowley hisses when he hears a knock at the door, tempted to ignore it and roll over. But he knows who's there (after all, there isn't anyone who would _willingly_ march up to his door, nonetheless be brave enough to bother interacting with said door), and although his head is still achy and his body would not mind some more rest, he drags himself out of bed. He doesn't bother with properly dressing himself— Aziraphale knows to take him as he is, at this point—and answers the door in a tank top and baggy boxers, squinting so hard his eyes are basically closed.

"Fuck," he grunts, shielding his eyes with a hand to avoid the sun. He backs up, opening the door to hurry Aziraphale inside. "Get in, get _in_ here! It's too bloody bright out there—y'd think you were trying to _kill_ me."

"Yes, yes, you're a perfect drunkard," Aziraphale greets cheerfully. "Filled your miracle quota, eh?"

Crowley sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. " _What_ quota? I just hate filling out the paperwork. A hangover now is worth it if it means less forms to fill out later." He rubs his fingers over his temples.

Aziraphale hums, turning from Crowley to seemingly make himself at home. He heads right for the kitchen, setting something on the counter before he helps himself to digging through Crowley's cabinets. They're pretty bare, which Aziraphale gawks a bit at, and Crowley smiles wearily as he slides up beside him, elbows braced on the dark granite counter to watch Aziraphale do whatever he's doing.

"What are you looking for in there, Angel?"

Aziraphale manages to find a glass (for wine, but a glass is a glass), and fills it with water from the tap before setting it in front of Crowley.

"Certainly you have painkillers, right?"

"Somewhere around here, yeah," Crowley mumbles, picking up the glass and slurring his words around the lip of it. "You a bit ill?"

Aziraphale shakes his head, practically gliding out of the room and moving down the hall. Crowley hears him banging around in the bathroom, the sounds reverberating tenfold with his hangover. He winces as he forces himself to drink some water, waiting for Aziraphale's return.

When he comes back, it's with a bottle of aspirin that he is skillfully popping open and shaking out a pair of pills for Crowley. He hands them over, very gingerly taking Crowley's outstretched hand between his own to set the pills in his palm.

"There," Aziraphale says, sounding quite accomplished. Crowley nearly gags over how the only thing he can think in response is how precious that is, how Aziraphale is so pleased to help such a sorry sack like himself. Incredible. "Bottoms up, my dear."

Crowley takes the pills obediently, downing the rest of the water with an extra gulp or two. He goes to fill the glass again himself, feeling a little less miserable already. He brings the glass to his lips again, turning to take a real look at the thing Aziraphale had brought in with him and set on the counter. He eyes it curiously, then flicks his gaze to Aziraphale, pointing at the thing in question.

"What's with the plant?"

Aziraphale beams at that, his usual sunny disposition. He eagerly pats his hands beside the plant on the countertop, reaching to brush his fingers lovingly over the leaves.

"Well! I thought-- well, I wasn't sure how to thank you for... everything. So I figured this would be a pleasant gift." He looks to Crowley, full of a warmth that makes Crowley's stomach flip with a joy that should be absolutely fucking illegal.

Crowley doesn't know what to say, so Aziraphale takes point once more and continues his very-endearing babbling.

"I believe it's called _Homalomena_ ," he explains, but he needn't tell Crowley; it's very obvious what it is, to a trained eye like Crowley's. "It's not nearly as tall as some of your plants, and a bit lacking in color, but I thought it was quite charming in its own right."

Crowley nods slowly, finishing his second glass of water while Aziraphale speaks. "It's not so _ssspecial_ ," he (very literally) hisses, not in Aziraphale's direction but specifically towards the plant in question. Its leaves give a nervous quake in response, and Crowley's lips quirk in a smirk.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale chides, frowning at him. Crowley would never admit how it makes his chest hurt to be on the end of a genuine look of disapproval from Aziraphale.

"What? You can't go giving it a big head, Angel. It can't think it's better than the others. That only leaves you with rotten, ungrateful little buggers."

Aziraphale sighs, turning more towards Crowley. "I have a rule about this plant for you. I'll only let you keep it if you agree to my one condition."

Crowley rolls his eyes, a long-suffering motion, and looks back to Aziraphale. "All right. What's the catch?"

"You are not allowed to berate this one like you do to the others."

Crowley scoffs, but Aziraphale insists, "I mean it! You have all your other plants completely _terrified_ of you! I have no idea what it is you do to frighten them so, but it's—well, it's just cruel. They're lovely little things. So, for this one, I want you to treat it kindly. No yelling, no berating, no... whatever else you do to make your other plants quiver at the sight of you. Deal?"

"What point are you trying to prove?" Crowley asks, eyes squinted suspiciously. "You think all your niceties are going to make it grow better than my other plants? Have you _seen_ my other plants?"

Aziraphale gives a shrug that clearly indicates "I have an idea about what I'm doing, but it's too much to explain to you for now, so I will leave it at this mere gesture with my shoulders" and looks back to the plant. "Think of it as you will, just... no terrorizing this plant. All right?"

Crowley rolls his eyes. He knows he doesn't have to accept. He could very well just lie and the second Aziraphale leaves his flat, he can toss the plant down his very handy garbage disposal in the sink, which has seen the end of plenty of misbehaving ("misbehaving") greenery.

But he doesn't like lying to Aziraphale; it seems... well, _dishonest_. They're in this together, down here, alone on Earth most of the time. And if this is a _game_ Aziraphale is instigating, which he hasn't done since the early 1820s, then Crowley is going _all in_. He can play the angel's game— _and_ he can _win it_.

Crowley sticks a slender hand out towards Aziraphale, offering a lopsided smirk when Aziraphale takes his hand to give it a firm shake.

"Deal," he agrees, and pretends he doesn't feel warm at the beaming smile Aziraphale gives him.

* * *

 

That was a few weeks ago.

The plant sits on Crowley's table, which is used perhaps once every few years if it's lucky. But the table is far away enough from the other plants that they won't hear whatever nonsense Crowley thinks of telling the newest plant in his possession.

 ...Which is nothing, so far. Crowley hasn't said a word to the plant since after he got back from dinner with Aziraphale the evening he dropped it off. He looks at it from time to time, grimaces, then rolls his eyes and grumbles about Aziraphale as he walks away from it.

The other plants are easy to care for. He mists them with the practiced skill of a... mist-er. He checks them for defects. He allows no wilted stems, no shriveled leaves, not a single spot out of place. He informs his plants of these standards in a loud, firm voice. His plants obey.

The one on the table, Crowley finds, he has _no_ idea how to handle.

It sits there dutifully, because it is a plant and has nowhere else to go. It does not shake when Crowley walks by it to grab a drink from the kitchen. It doesn't even show interest in him when he walks into the same room as the thing, which could also be because it is a plant.

Crowley mists it once a day, just like the others. That much he can handle. He lifts its leaves to make sure the soil gets a decent spray, but he says not a word to it.

Aziraphale, after all, only told him not to shout at it, Crowley thinks smugly to himself.

* * *

 

"How have things been with your new addition?" Aziraphale asks him over the lip of his coffee drink that has one of those clever little designs made from foam on the top. They're at a cafe, enjoying the unusually sunny afternoon.

Crowley feigns casual at the question, busying himself with a sip from his iced coffee that is far too strong for his tastes, which actually makes it perfect. "S'fine," he mumbles, stirring the ice cubes with his straw.

"Just 'fine'?"

Crowley cocks a brow at him. "Angel," he says gently, "it's a _plant_."

"Well, of course it is," Aziraphale agrees. "But I _do_ recall giving you specific instructions—making a deal, even—regarding how you should care for it. Have you kept your word?"

"All I recall you telling me to do is to avoid treating it like my other plants. I put it in its own room and mist it in the evening rather than the morning," Crowley sniffs. _Got 'em_ , he thinks smugly at the silence that follows.

But it's only for a moment before Aziraphale nearly pouts at him. "You're being a poor sport."

"What? How!"

"You have to give it a chance, Crowley. Just... talk to it. Like you talk to me! Like-- like a... friend," Aziraphale says the last word with a warmth to his voice that makes Crowley want to shout with delight; it's only recently Aziraphale has been able to say things like that to Crowley. Admitting their friendship and whatnot.

Crowley gives a roll of his eyes and pretends he isn't endeared to Hell and back over how kind Aziraphale is. He plays with the ice cubes in his drink some more to show that he isn't endeared at all. He even picks up the check to prove he is not endeared whatsoever.

"Fine. I'll do it," he mumbles once he's signed off on the tiny slip of paper that means nothing to a demon with the connections that he has. A few pounds is meaningless, though when they're tossed out for Aziraphale's sake, they are absolutely priceless.

...Wait, what—

Anyways, Crowley stands, stuffing his hands into his pockets. The sun is nice, but the air is still a bit chilly. Aziraphale follows suit in standing, and they head out towards the Bentley.

"It's not so bad," Aziraphale says while he's clinging for dear life as Crowley speeds them back towards Aziraphale's shop, taking great pleasure in wrenching out Aziraphale's panicked little gasps and shivers.

Crowley pauses in his chaotic driving to shoot Aziraphale a look. "What's not bad?"

Aziraphale opens his mouth, but instead of a real answer, he shouts out, "Car! _Crowley_ —eyes on the road!"

* * *

 

When Crowley gets home that evening, he drops himself into a seat at his table, sitting before his new plant.

It does not stare at him, because it is a plant, but Crowley certainly stares at it. He thinks about Aziraphale (though, truth be told, when _doesn't_ he think about Aziraphale) as he looks over fair-sized green leaves, eyeing their waxy, shiny texture. It's a decent plant. Not as prestigious as his other plants, but that can't be helped; Aziraphale brought him the thing, and Aziraphale does not have the same eye for plants that Crowley does. Which seems odd, given the general angel M.O., but Crowley wonders if slithering around all those thousands of years ago really gave him some insight on the whole plant business.

Regardless, the plant is here and so is Crowley. And Aziraphale said to talk to it like a friend, but Aziraphale seemed to have forgotten that the only friend Crowley has _is_ Aziraphale. Which is not a bad thing, Crowley thinks, because Crowley likes Aziraphale. He is a good friend—a great friend, actually. The very best.

Crowley puts a fair amount of effort in thinking about what to say to this plant that will matter, something that will make it do its job without hesitation. He stares at the thing while he thinks, but nothing really seems to come to mind at first.

"You're quite small," Crowley eventually says to it. The plant, since it does not look at him like a person with eyeballs might, simply sits there on the table. It might actually droop a little at the comment, but if it does, Crowley ignores it.

He hums. "Yes, quite small indeed. A runt of a thing. You know, my friend who dropped you off here told me I should speak with you as if we were friends. I think that's rather funny," he says, slouching in his seat, "because having friends isn't what gets you somewhere. No, little gem, a friendship between us isn't what is going to make you look as beautiful as my other plants—and they _are_ beautiful, because I tell them to be just that, you know. Friendship isn't what will make you grow tall, or what will save you when one day your leaves just shrivel up 'cause you're old and all I can do for you is to send you down the disposal in the sink.

" _But_ ," Crowley adds pointedly, leaning into the plant with a smirk. Its leaves curl in on itself when Crowley's face gets right up near it, smiling a rather amused smile over a conversation that does not necessarily seem very amusing. "It's what Angel wants, so we'll give it a go, you and me."

The plant, predictably, says nothing to this. Crowley slaps an open hand on the table to end the conversation before he stands and saunters out of the kitchen, leaving his newest plant to slowly uncurl its leaves and wonder silently about its new owner, as plants do.

* * *

 

"Is this—? I don't fucking believe this," Crowley whispers, but the anger in his voice is loud enough to make anyone go deaf. His plants tremble and quiver with great fear as he looks among them with wide eyes. He jerks a hand away from the plant who is currently in question, ripping off a leaf from it that has shriveled up at the tip.

"Is this shit acceptable to anyone?" He demands, holding the leaf up. "Does anyone here find this shit acceptable? Because I'll tell you lot right now: this is absolutely _un-fucking-acceptable_. You aren't some cheap housewife's weekend project, you aren't some potted pisser that's _ssss_ tuck in a lobby for some two-star hotel, you are _my_ plants!  And I do _not_ accept this-- this _horseshit_!"

The trembling of plants is a rather peaceful sound, but it does little to quell Crowley's outrage with his plants. They'd been doing so well, too... but mistakes are not to be forgiven, no matter how small. Those are the rules Crowley knows, and those are the rules that guide perfection; thus, they are the rules he will impose on the greenery in his home.

He tosses the shriveled leaf on the floor, giving it a good stomp as he makes his way out of the room. He is annoyed. He doesn't yell at them for the sake of yelling, he yells at them for a purpose, to make sure they are the best they can possibly be, because perfection is the only thing that's accepted—

Crowley has stormed into his kitchen to set down his mist bottle at the sink as a reminder to fill it later. He catches sight of the other plant, Aziraphale's plant, there on the table, where it normally is. There isn't anything different about it currently, but goodness, does Crowley give it a glare-down to try and see if there's any type of imperfection with it, regardless of how minor it might be.

It comes up clean. Crowley gives it a squint, unsure whether this pleases him or annoys him further, but decides to comment:

"You're looking particularly... _plain_ today."

Silence.

"Good-- erm... yeah. Good."

* * *

 

A few months later, Crowley notices the table plant is looking a little different.

It's not sickly, so that's well enough. No spots, no wrinkled leaves. It's more that the base of it has changed a bit, which could be due to the fact Crowley, in a fit of anger from his other plants, decided to re-pot Aziraphale's plant into a new container. He furiously prepared and packed soil he'd treated himself with leftover coffee grounds and eggshells into a matte red pot, digging in a space for the plant before transferring it with care, as one must do with plants, regardless of how much you may or may not care about them.

"There," Crowley had grunted when the switch was made, setting the plant and its new home atop his table once more. "Now you'll look a bit less of an eyesore without that hideous plastic container. Can't expect good things when you've got none to start with, right?"

His plant had said nothing to that, but Crowley took the silence as a good thing.

And perhaps it was, seeing as it has managed to grow a bit. Its vines have grown out, new leaves sprouting here and there, but they grow into a rather messy sort of bundle atop his table. Crowley isn't sure if he likes it or utterly fucking hates it, but he supposes he doesn't have a choice; plants generally obey him, but there are aspects that cannot be controlled.

"You're growing to be quite the sight," Crowley comments one evening when he gets back from another dinner with Aziraphale; a delicious Tapas restaurant that had Crowley resisting the urge to swoon as he watched Aziraphale's face light up with every new taste that touched his tongue.

Crowley runs his fingers through some of the leaves, feeling their waxy texture between the pads of his fingers, feeling the life running through the disorganized little thing.

"Keep at it. It's difficult, and you're likely to get it wrong, but you'd best keep growing," he murmurs, almost fondly, to the plant.

"It's all we can do."

* * *

 

"How's the plant?"

It's been quite a while since Aziraphale has given him that plant. Crowley is both surprised and amused that Aziraphale even has the mind to ask about it at this point; it clearly isn't dead, so Crowley isn't sure why Aziraphale asks about it anymore.

Crowley furrows his brows at Aziraphale, running his fingers over the rim of his wine glass as he sits back in his seat entirely improper for such a nice restaurant they're currently seated in. "Why'd you give me that thing?"

"Well, you like plants, don't you?"

"I like when they look good, yes. Why did you bring me _that_ one, with your specific instructions?"

Aziraphale shrugs, a movement that says "I absolutely know why I gave you that plant, but I am not keen on explaining myself to you, so instead I will shrug and look absolutely, perfectly kissable, and you will have to sit there like a dense idiot and watch me eat a small bite of cake while I think of something to say" as he brings his napkin to his mouth to dab at the corners of his lips.

"I thought it might be a good change of pace for you," he says thoughtfully. "You're so focused on getting the very best out of your other plants by yelling about all their flaws, I thought, 'he ought to have a plant that he admires just for being itself'."

Crowley nods a nod that means he doesn't really follow at all, but he sips his wine and leaves it at that.

"Was it really so bad?"

Crowley frowns. "Was what so bad?"

"Being kind towards that plant?"

"Angel," Crowley sighs, " 'being _kind_ ' just isn't—"

Aziraphale points at him with his fork, "There is just enough kindness in you to matter, Crowley. We are not going through that-- ...oh, what's the phrase... book of worms?"

"Can of worms," Crowley supplies, and smiles a bit at Aziraphale's whisper of _damn it_ under his breath. "And—so maybe you're right. Maybe—and _only_ maybe, because kindne _ssssss_ is something that my lot are keen to punish, I'll have you know—I've got a _teensy_ , tiny, really quite miniscule bit of kindness in me. _Maybe_. What good is me wasting it on a plant?"

"Kindness is never a waste," Aziraphale says genuinely, almost hurt at the implication of it. "It isn't, Crowley. My dear, kindness is _always_ good. Perhaps it isn't what demons are about, but... well, I don't think it's something you need always avoid so drastically."

Crowley shakes his head. "It _is_ pointless, Aziraphale," he answers, looking down at the white tablecloth rather than to Aziraphale's face. "Demons _aren't_ nice. They _aren't_ kind. Maybe once, sure, but—but not once we're... this."

These kinds of discussions are... weird. Crowley doesn't like thinking about the thing that Aziraphale likes to imply sometimes; they come from the same source. Crowley was one like Aziraphale, lovely and kind and warm, but the way Heaven runs... well, it's a lot like the way Crowley bosses around his plants, really. One mistake gives you a one-way ticket Down. Perfection is the only thing that is tolerated up there, and it's something Crowley remembers from his own perspective, but also semi-recently, when he stepped into the pyre in the shape of Aziraphale, before those other angels.

Aziraphale had only tried to help, had only been kind and tolerant of Crowley's existence at that point, and yet Crowley remembers Gabriel demanding him to walk himself into the fire.

They are quite for a while as Aziraphale finishes his cake and Crowley sips quietly at his wine. Maybe that will be that.

But of course it isn't, because Aziraphale speaks up as the check comes and he plucks it out of the waitress' hand with a smile and a nod.

"Humans tend to be kind to each other," he comments as he counts out bills, licking the pad of his thumb every now and then to aid the process. "And they tend to prescribe themselves to our sides, don't they?"

Crowley squints, looking around the restaurant at the humans in question. "So?"

" _So_ ," Aziraphale emphasizes by shutting the little booklet once he's put the cash inside, "if they assign themselves to our respective sides, yet all of them exude some kind of kindness... I think that says a lot."

"About _humans_ , maybe."

"But we've spent all this time on Earth together, you and I," Aziraphale adds, and smiles. "And we've grown a bit fond of some of their ideas, I'd like to think. Your Bentley, my books—collecting and caring for our things. Those are very human ideas."

Crowley cocks his head, finally catching on. "You're saying that it's _human_ for bad people to do nice things."

Aziraphale nods. "At least, that's what I'm thinking so far. Come back to me in fifty years, I might have some addendums to my theory."

They both chuckle at that.

It's a weird thought, Crowley thinks as he watches their waitress take the little booklet full of Aziraphale's cash. He can smell the greed on her when she walks away, counting the bills; definitely a sin, but yet... she was so _kind_ to Aziraphale, smiling and talking with him about something or other every time she stopped by to check on them. She put up with Crowley being quiet and pushy with his orders.

Maybe Aziraphale is onto something. Maybe he's just assuming the best of Crowley. Perhaps it's a little of both.

* * *

 

"—saying that it's perfectly acceptable to be _nicccce_ , which, of course he's my best friend, but sometimes he says things that just— _ugh_."

Crowley sets aside the mist bottle to fiddle with the leaves. They spring around happily when Crowley touches them, and though he glances the whole thing over, there are no imperfections that he can see that call for a stern talking to.

He fiddles with the leaves, trying to make the plant (which has grown quite a bit; it doesn't necessarily grow _upwards_ , but it certainly grows _outwards_ ) look the most presentable it can appear, for sitting on his table in a mess of vines and healthy-looking leaves.

"...Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on him," he murmurs, mostly to himself, but if his plant happens to be listening, that's alright, too. "After all, if there's time enough where I can find him to be a right bastard..."

He ends the thought there, clearing his throat and pulling away from his plant. Crowley definitely isn't thinking about how if there are times where _Aziraphale_ can be a real bastard, then maybe, perhaps, just _maybe_ , there can be times where Crowley is perhaps, maybe, a teensy-weensy bit _nice_.

He scoops up the mist bottle and takes a moment to point a firm finger at the table plant.

"You look _perfect_ right now," he says, and though it's technically a compliment, Crowley delivers it like an angry statement. "Your leaves? Fucking _brilliant_. Don't change a _thing_. You hear me?"

His plant, as always, says nothing. It might look a little fuller, a little proud, but if it does, Crowley doesn't see it.

"Keep at your growing," Crowley says, mostly over his shoulder as he heads out of the room.

**Author's Note:**

> That headcanon that Crowley treats his plants the way he believes he was treated is so heartbreaking, but I wanted to play with it a little bit. Maybe this fic makes no sense, but it was fun to write either way, lol.


End file.
